Move.

Remember when I turned 35 and said “everything tells”? If you don’t, it was a reference to the seemingly immediate consequences of even my most innocuous actions. Let’s review real quick: 

“The three beers that show up in a pouch above my pelvis at the end of a too-long night out. The aggravation flashing in my eyes when men bloviate at work. The atrophied muscles during lazy weekends in bed. The lack of inspiration when I’m too married to my routine to get out and interact with the world outside my head. The random charges that hit my account at inconvenient times because “Oh, yeah. That thing I subscribed to when I needed more stuff to consume to distract me from my thoughts.” The drafts of lifeless prose penned by someone trying to “sound like a writer” because the truth just ain’t as sexy as it used to be.

I can’t hide anything from anyone anymore.” – “Everything Tells: On Turning 35”

This is how change happens for me: I have to be bludgeoned about the head to leave a space I’ve deemed “safe enough.” I stick and stay and plant my feet until the ground cracks beneath me and threatens to swallow me whole. Only then do I leap from my perch. Not toward anything but away from certain doom.

If 35 started with life telling on me, the mid-point finds life screeching at me, its message loud and clear:

Move.

And so I’ll leap into the unknown once again. Let’s pray I land on my feet.


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